


Running In Place

by prototyping



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, F/M, genfic, mostly genfic anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glance sideways reveals a female, which is twice as unexpected. Women in particular tend not to approach him, except on the rare occasion that they want something -- money, usually -- but Vanitas can immediately tell that this girl needs no hand-outs, nor is she dressed in some scandalous outfit meant to draw his eye. She isn't even looking at him, but up and down the bar in a way that confirms she's new here.</p>
<p>Vanitas, Kairi. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running In Place

The cheers and jeers of the rowdy, drunken crowd drown out most of the sound. They don't hear the fighters' panting, the splat of blood being spit from a busted mouth. They're oblivious to the low threats hissed by the larger of the two contestants, but that's neither here nor there. Half the observers are regulars and they know who to put their money on.

It doesn't look like much of a contest: a bulky, weathered biker in his thirties, as much leather as he is talk and probably sporting two tattoos for every year he's been alive. Opposite is a young man whom most would -- and do -- still refer to as _kid_ , despite that he's old enough to be in college or serve in the military or do anything more honorable than hang around a seedy, smoky bar like this one. He's medium height, thin, although not without muscle. His own share of ink twists along his shoulders and around his right arm, thin lines as dark as his mess of hair.

His features are sharp and pronounced, his eyes the only real color in the gloomy haze that always seems to hang around the ring. That's the owner's term -- "the ring" -- but at best it's a raised, tarp-covered platform lined with a mesh fence on all sides. An improvised setting for the nightly "cage match" -- crappy, but effective. The customers don't come for the scenery, anyway.

The biker lunges, swinging a ham-sized fist that's probably dislodged a few teeth in its day. The smaller fighter waits, his pale face and bright eyes collected and impassive -- until the last second, when he narrowly bares his teeth in a grin.

Then he moves, dodging the punch with bored ease. The counter is so simple that it's almost insulting, but this is his third fight of the night in a long string of letdown opponents and he's not feeling particularly playful. Bringing his weight back in from his sidestep, he delivers a hard right hook to the big man's jaw. The crowd can't hear the impact of knuckles on flesh, but the thumping impact is so routinely familiar that he can imagine it just fine, the same way he disregards the discomfort that shoots up through his elbow and beyond. He follows up with another punch on his left, feints a right, and lashes out again, this time to break his opponent's nose.

A splatter of blood and a snarling curse say it worked. Most opponents stop at that point, but this one has more pride than is good for him. The man makes another lunge, blind and clumsier than the first; his fists meet air and he's rewarded with a hard kick to the side of his knee. With a howl he hits the mat, and the smarter half of the crowd jump from their seats in equal parts cheers and demands for their betting money.

Once again apathetic, the smaller fighter, now victor, turns his back without another glance. He ducks out of the ring through a crudely cut opening in the rusty mesh, knowing how to twist just so and avoid what would probably be a case of Tetanus. No one spares him a look as he passes, which is fine by him.

It's the bar's busiest night of the week, which means the benches around the ring aren't the only filled seats. Fortunately, no one has infringed on his usual table tonight, so he doesn't have to throw out any threats. He drops into the chair with his shirt and jacket hanging across the back, ignoring both in light of the busted AC and the summer heat that makes his sweat stick to his skin. He pulls his lighter from one pocket, a pack of cigarettes from the other, and a moment later has a stick lit between his thin lips.

He observes the room with casual disinterest as he leans back. Some new faces, most old, with none of them meaning a thing to him.

None, really, except the one that suddenly speaks up from behind the bar. "Yo, Van."

The smoking youth looks over in time to see a rubber-banded roll of green make an arc for his head. He snatches it out of the air, shooting the man a flat look, and thumbs through the bills with practiced precision.

"These matches are gettin' shorter 'n shorter, kiddo," his boss remarks. "Least you could do is drag it out a bit. I sell more drinks that way."

"You pay me to fight, not to put on a play," Vanitas drawls dismissively around his cigarette. "Up it by, eh, fifty percent and we'll talk."

The boss gives a gruff laugh. "Keep dreamin'."

Ignoring that, Vanitas decides he's satisfied with the pay and tucks the wad of cash into the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't expect an increase, honestly. His wages fluctuate depending on the turnout, and tonight was a better one; still, he can appreciate the old man's punctuality. Vanitas had to get moody more than once to establish such a quick deadline.

"Might help if you bring me a challenge once in awhile," he adds. He takes his time in exhaling, blowing the last of the smoke from his lungs before pointing out, "Can't remember the last time I fought somebody younger than you."

"Heh. I do. You messed that kid up pretty bad."

Vanitas' shoulder twitches in an almost-shrug. "You complaining?"

"Nope. Just wonderin' when karma's gonna come around and kick in _your_ pretty face for once."

"Pfeh." It's as much of a scornful chuckle as it is an annoyed scoff. Vanitas doesn't appreciate compliments much, least of all false ones. Neither does he put any stock in something like karma. "Izzat what happened to you, Braig? Karma?"

The boss breaks into a crooked grin, the one that always seems to go a little too well with his creepy eyepatch. "Somethin' like that." Stepping out from behind the bar, he gives the room a one-eyed onceover. "I'll be in the back. Have a drink on the house, kiddo -- and think about what I said."

"I'll be thinking about that extra pay," Vanitas replies as he passes. Braig ignores it and disappears through the back door, leaving him alone with his cigarette and his absent thoughts.

Vanitas doesn't move right away, content in his spot underneath one of the few fans in the place. It's been "his table" since the start of his winning streak in the ring, going on... three months now, he thinks. He's lived in this gutter of a city for longer than that, though, setting a record for the longest he's ever stayed in one place. Ever since leaving home, anyway.

He stares up at the ceiling, watching his smoky breath rise and disperse among the sluggish fan blades. Half a year. Not exactly living a dream, but not the worst off he's ever been, either. He's got a little bit of security, provided he doesn't lose a fight, the bar doesn't burn down, and Braig doesn't get shanked in a back alley or something. Edgy living, some might say, but Vanitas isn't the type to settle down.

That's the nice part about it, though: few people care to butt in on his business, except where they can profit off of it, which means few people care to ask questions. His reputation only helps maintain his borders of privacy, too. To the skeevy neighborhood he calls home, he's a punk who's tougher than he looks and doesn't take kindly to being screwed with.

He's pretty sure no one in town even knows his full name. "Van" is the moniker he's claimed since arriving, even though it often only serves to remind him of an old acquaintance he would rather forget. But it's a good thing, he's decided -- he finds it all the easier to keep his temper flared and boiling under his collected surface, making it that much easier to call upon it when needed. Unlike most, he fights better when he's angry.

Vanitas glances at the clock on the wall, its glass face long since shattered and its minute hand a good thirty minutes behind. He's not a heavy drinker, nor does he have any bruises or sprains that need numbing, but a cold drink is tempting. He finishes his smoke first, aware he'll light up another one within the hour, and then heads for the bar and the angry blonde who runs it. How or why she still has a job, he can't begin to guess.

She purses her lips as he drops onto a stool, eyeing him with her usual snobby disdain. "No shirt, no service," she informs him in that aggravating mock-sweetness of voice. "Get your man sweat _off_ my bar and into a shower."

"As charming as ever," Vanitas replies coolly, not budging. "I'm so amazed you're still single."

_"Hmph."_ Despite the dangerous flash in her eyes, Relena only smirks. "Is that a hint? Drop dead, Van. Not happening."

"I don't do hints." Were he a lesser man who couldn't control his emotions as well as he does, Vanitas would include a choice noun at the end of that remark. He refrains. "I'm honest enough to tell you upfront that you're the last chick I'd ever lay hands on. The usual, boss's tab," he adds casually.

Her lip curls slightly, but she deigns to do as told, even though she slides the glass towards him a minute later with more force than necessary. He saves it from tumbling to the floor and going to waste -- and figures that was her intention -- and is glad when she turns her back on him to tend to the far end of the bar. Good.

As tired as he is, Vanitas withholds a sigh. He’s normally pretty adept at clearing his thoughts even without the assistance of alcohol, but when he’s this worn out, it starts to become a challenge. Not for the first time, he’s reminded that he can’t keep doing this forever. He can’t keep running forever, either, but that’s a whole different matter and one he’d rather not think about just yet.

_’Yet,’_ he mocks silently, scoffing at himself. _And when is it_ not _going to be too soon? Ten years from now? Twenty?_

He hisses quietly between his teeth as he raises his drink, irritated at himself. Indecisiveness is a weakness, and while he’s not the type of ignorant musclehead to think every problem can be solved through force of strength, lack of control doesn’t sit well with him. Never has.

_Guess that’s why I’m here in the first place._

His thoughts are interrupted by movement on his right, and none too soon. Someone slides onto the stool beside him, which catches him by surprise considering there are five more open seats further down. Vanitas has enough of a reputation that people usually avoid him unless they're looking for trouble.

A glance sideways reveals a female, which is twice as unexpected. Women in particular tend not to approach him, except on the rare occasion that they want something -- money, usually -- but Vanitas can immediately tell that this girl needs no hand-outs, nor is she dressed in some scandalous outfit meant to draw his eye. She isn't even looking at him, but up and down the bar in a way that confirms she's new here.

He takes the opportunity to give her a once-over. A jean jacket over a modest, cutesy shirt. Thigh-length skirt, knee-high boots, a small purse in her lap. A redhead, which is automatically a little disappointing. He doesn't care much for redheads.

His assessment is that she's clearly in the wrong part of town. Lost, maybe. When Relena approaches a moment later, her sour (more so than usual) face says she's thinking the same thing.

"You even old enough to drink, little girl?"

Vanitas clinks his glass idly, curious how this will go but pretending to take no interest.

"Just water, please," says the redhead. It's a polite, girly voice, unfazed by the barmaid's sarcasm.

"No freebies. It'll cost you."

"That's fine. What can I get for two dollars?" A moment later the redhead’s earned half a glass of tap water and Relena's obvious contempt.

Chuckling, Vanitas pulls his cigarettes from his back pocket once more as he and the girl are left to themselves.

"What is it?"

He meets her bright gaze briefly, and then looks at Relena's retreating back. "You," he says bluntly. He takes his time in lighting the new stick between his lips, and then clarifies, "You know how little kids get mad when you ignore 'em?"

She looks puzzled, but nods.

"That's Relena in a nutshell," he explains, taking a quick drag. "Ignore her long enough and she'll get bored. You did pretty good for a first-timer."

The redhead glances over at the woman in question, and then back, this time smiling. "Thanks for the advice. How'd you know this is my first time here?"

Turning towards her fully for the first time, Vanitas fixes her with a deadpan stare. He glances down at her coral-colored outfit, and then he resumes the stare.

Her lips quirk in a knowing smile. Redhead or not, he has to admit she's good-looking. More cute than sexy, but he's not picky when it comes to looking. "Yeah. Kind of obvious, huh?"

"Kind of," he echoes sarcastically. With utter disinterest, he inquires, "You lost or somethin'?"

She gives a short, restrained sigh. "Something like that. I know where I am and where I need to get to, but..." She shrugs lightly, running a finger along the lip of her glass. "This hasn't been the best road trip."

Vanitas grunts his apathy. It's not his problem, but he has to wonder why she doesn't call a cab or a friend to pick her up. A runaway? Short on cash? Either's possible, not that he cares.

"That's some crappy luck," he observes. "Not sure if you're gutsy or stupid for walkin' in here."

"Beats standing around outside," she counters. She doesn't sound defensive, but her smile isn't as sunshine-and-rainbows as before.

"Maybe." After dark, at least. He finishes off the last of his glass. As he sets it down, he notices that she's staring at his tattoo -- one of them, anyway, the jagged symbol wrapping halfway around the inside of his forearm.

"What's it mean?" she asks.

He can't recall anyone ever bothering to ask, not even the guy who gave it to him. Vanitas also looks down at it, the dark ink in stark contrast against his pale skin.

"Unversed."

She cocks a thin eyebrow, the look of someone wondering why any self-respecting person would label himself with something so negative. "Why'd you pick that? If you don't mind me asking."

"I might," he challenges, but with nothing in his voice to suggest that he's actually taken offense. "You this nosy with every guy you meet?"

"No," she replies evenly, taking up her own drink to finally sip at it. "I just thought it couldn't hurt to get to know you a little, Vanitas."

He almost overlooks the casual name-drop. Almost. But after going months without hearing his full name, the discrepancy catches his attention fast enough to make his head snap in her direction before he can stop himself. Even his usual screw-all attitude falters.

"What?"

"I thought I might get to know you," she repeats, irritatingly (and unrealistically) oblivious.

"Cut the crap," Vanitas snaps. He swivels towards her as he pulls his cigarette from his mouth, elbow on the counter. "How d'you know me?"

Unfazed, she only offers him another sweet smile. "How about a trade? I'll tell you if you tell me about your tattoo."

Were she a guy, Vanitas would punch her to the floor. Fortunately for her, he finds that kind of boldness impressive in a woman, and a little attractive -- although still annoying. He regards her for several long seconds under a hard gaze, but she doesn't back down. Very impressive.

His passive face breaks into a grin and he laughs, the sound loud and harsh and a little unhinged. In a bar full of drunks, it goes unnoticed. "Okay," he agrees, sarcastic humor lining his tone. "You've got some spine, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I like that." He thumbs the end of his cigarette as if in thought, and then lies his arm along the bar's edge -- intentionally reaching past her so that he can lean in closer. Nothing _too_ invasive, although he's sure she can smell the smoke and alcohol on his breath if she couldn't before. She leans back slightly, barely noticeable, but doesn't look away.

Vanitas glances again at the tattoo in question. "Unversed," he repeats. "My first ink, way back." He hesitates, and then smiles a pseudo-pleasant smile back at her. "What do you think it means?"

"It means unskilled, doesn't it? Or inexperienced."

"It can. Or 'unlearned' -- as in not knowing much about something." He's itching for another drag, but that would require drawing back from her somewhat, and he rather likes trespassing in her personal bubble like this. Two can play that game. "Wasn't sure what I wanted to do with myself then. You could say I was unversed in my own existence."

And that was the truth of it. Still is.

She turns that over with a thoughtful face, but that's as much as he's giving her. "Now--" He tilts his head expectantly. "Spill it."

For a moment it looks as though she's studying him, her gaze flicking from his hairline to his chin and back. Then her smile returns -- the easy, unassuming one -- and she remarks,

"You look a lot like Sora."

That catches him off guard, and more than it probably should. Vanitas blinks at her, his humor fading as he straightens up a little, and this time he studies her. "You a friend of his?" he asks, his tone neutral.

She reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear distractedly, glancing away. "Yeah. More or less.”

A short laugh escapes him and he retreats back to his own stool. "Look at that," he muses as he leans on the bar. "Baby bro went and hooked himself a hottie. Good for him."

"Kairi," she corrects him, slightly stern. She's either flustered or annoyed by that remark, maybe both.

"Whatever." Even with Sora involved, Vanitas can't say he cares about this chick's predicament -- but now there's one detail bothering him. "Why ain't he pickin' you up, then?"

"He is. We're meeting up soon -- there's a clocktower around here, right?"

Vanitas grunts again. "Yeah, on the other side of the city. Thirty miles, give or take." Well past the boundary that marks the limits of downtown, where the two of them are currently situated.

The girl -- Kairi -- gives a troubled hum. "That far, huh."

"Yep." He turns and slides to his feet, turning his back on her in a blatant display of disinterest. "Might wanna get walking."

"Wait--" He hears her stand up, but he starts walking and forces her to follow. "Vanitas, I was wondering--"

"No," he says flatly.

"I'll pay you for the gas," she offers quickly.

"Use that to get a taxi." Reaching his table, Vanitas grabs his shirt and pulls it down over his head. Black and sleeveless, it still leaves most of his tattoos and scars bare for the world to see.

"I don't have any money on me _now_." Kairi steps around into his line of sight, her face set and determined. "I'll pay you after, I promise. I just need a one-way ride, that's it."

He breathes out another column of smoke, although he has the decency to do so away from her. "You seem to be confused, so I'll enlighten you: Sora's the good one in the family. If you need a hero, that's who you need to call, princess."

For a second she looks as though she's about to argue, but then seems to bite it back. "And what's that make you?" she asks.

Returning his cigarette to his mouth, Vanitas meets her gaze head-on with a blank slate of an expression. "Your guess is as good as mine."

She exhales, sharp but quiet. "So you won't help me."

"It's not my problem." Neither is he keen on the possibility of confronting his brother again -- not yet, at least -- or on giving Sora a heads-up as to his whereabouts. Then again, now that Kairi knows, the latter problem is probably inevitable. She'll tell him, or before it even comes to that, Sora could come looking for her if she doesn't show up soon.

Which is a good possibility, Vanitas notes silently. He knows this bar and its regulars pretty well by now, so he knows which corners to glance at. Sure enough, more than a couple pairs of eyes are on them -- on Kairi, rather. If walking really is among her back-up plans, she won't make it very far. Not unless she's packing a gun in that slim little outfit somewhere.

He knows his brother, too. Sora's always been the type to jump headfirst into things, and if Kairi's supposed to meet him tonight, he'll be scouring this side of town by tomorrow morning, if not before. By himself if need be.

_Hero,_ indeed.

This is, of course, assuming that Vanitas follows through with his first impulse and walks away. Then again, which is the lesser annoyance: sticking his neck out for this chick, or facing Sora sooner than expected?

Vanitas cusses silently, rolling his eyes. Is it really gonna come to that?

Kairi turns away, not appearing upset as much as just disappointed, but her head stays high. He has to admire that, too.

It feels like a sharp kick to his pride, but Vanitas forces himself to speak up before she's taken two steps. "...All _right,_ listen up--" She instantly turns back, looking hopeful. "I can take you, but you can't tell him you saw me here."

"Huh?"

"That's the deal," he says firmly. "I give you a lift, you keep your mouth shut about me. We never met. This never happened."

She blinks. "Why--"

"Do you want a ride or not?" he snaps. Talking about his tattoos was one thing, but he has no intention of discussing family matters with anyone.

"Yes," she says quickly, frowning. "If that's really what you want, then okay, but..."

But?

"But I can't lie to him," she goes on, and meets his gaze with one that's earnest and steadfast. "I won't betray his trust like that. If he asks..."

Vanitas stares at her. Is she serious? He meant the "princess" thing as a joke, but he apparently wasn't too far off. "He shouldn't," he says shortly. "As far as he knows, I'm off the map."

"I mean--"

" _I_ mean," he interrupts, stepping forward and emphasizing the several inches' difference between their heights, "you're going to keep quiet. Whether it's because I help you out or because you end up dead in a gutter after trying to get there alone, I'm not too picky." He holds her stare. "Do you want. A ride. Or not?"

Kairi still doesn't back down -- although she's backed up against the table now, so she really has no choice, but she doesn't shy away from his hard glare. Vanitas expects a retort, or agreement, or rejection -- but she gives him none of those. Instead, her voice lowers, and she actually looks... sympathetic. As though she feels sorry. For him.

"...He misses you, you know."

Something inside Vanitas reels from that sucker punch. When he recovers a heartbeat later, it hardens into anger and urges him to strike out at her, to backhand that pity off her face and walk away. Let her fend for herself and if something happens to her then it's no skin off his back--

\--except it will be, because if something happens and Sora blames himself when Vanitas could have done something about it, if he could have protected in some small way the only person he actually, sort of still cares about besides himself, and instead only hurts him again--

The most that flare of temper shows outwardly is the way Vanitas' eyes narrow.

"...But I won't say anything," Kairi concludes.

Women are as two-faced as the human race can come, Vanitas knows. He trusts them even less than men because they're that much better at hiding their intentions; they can switch emotions on a dime and there's no telling which is the real one. Even at the young age of twenty-four, he's seen enough to know that much.

Regardless, he can't help feeling as though he can take Kairi at her word. There's something ridiculously honest in her face -- and if she's that close to Sora, she's probably a lot like him in some ways. She's certainly naive enough to be his girlfriend, that's for sure.

After a moment, Vanitas draws himself up to his full height, as if to step away.

And instead he snakes his free hand around her side to slam his palm, loudly, against the tabletop. Before she can jump in surprise, he pins her hips against it with his own in a motion that's both rough and questionable, and leans forward sharply enough that she's bent partway over the table as she tries to keep a semi-decent amount of space between them. The look that suddenly hardens her gaze is one he recognizes: gone is that gentle, unassuming trust, replaced with alert suspicion. Wariness. Not fear, but he'll take it all the same.

Vanitas holds that gaze as well as the rest of her in place, all while giving her a fake, placid smile. "Good choice," he hisses. With the same speed he suddenly backs off, freeing her as he pulls his leather jacket off his chair. "Out front in five minutes," he tells her dismissively. "If you're not there, you're on your own."

* * *

"Haven't you been drinking?"

Vanitas shoots Kairi a sour look as he swings a leg over his motorcycle, keys already in his hand. "I've had one," he clarifies, in the kind of tone that suggests she's an idiot. "Takes three to mess up my driving."

The bar's gravel parking lot is abuzz with customers arriving and leaving. Of the latter, most are clearly drunk, and Vanitas feels a little slighted at being compared to them after only one glass.

When Kairi still looks unsure, he adds, "Look, I've had this bike for six years without crashing it once. I can't guarantee I'll be in town tomorrow, either, so choose fast." He slides his helmet on, ending the discussion there.

She only needs a couple seconds to decide, it turns out. She seats herself behind him, hands on his shoulders, and he starts the ignition with a roar. He coasts to the edge of the lot, stops, and waits -- but Kairi doesn't catch on, so with a flare of impatience he reaches back, slips his hands behind her knees, and jerks her forward until she's flush against him. To his credit, his hands don't linger any longer than necessary.

"No time for modesty, princess," he calls over the noise. "Hang on and keep your head down." As soon as her arms are around his chest, Vanitas emphasizes his warning by taking off a little harder than necessary. Kairi holds tight.

Even with the annoying baggage and lingering irritation of having gotten involved in this matter, most of Vanitas' negativity fades to the background as he hits the road. He enjoys fighting, he has his vices in smoking and drinking, but nothing really compares to the freedom of a fast ride. At night like this, especially, he's able to let go of everything but the engine's mind-numbing roar, the wind whipping at his sleeves, and the world blurring by as he leaves it behind. Most of all, it’s easy to suppress the old, unwanted memories trying to fight their way to the surface. He’ll struggle with them later, he already knows, but for now that’s fine. The wind and the road are all he needs.

It's peaceful, he supposes, or as peaceful as a guy like him can get.

It's a light night for traffic, but he takes the longer route across town, anyway. After a week of on-and-off rain showers, it's a good chance for a long drive and he might as well take it. There's no room for conversation, besides, so Kairi's presence can be ignored.

The drive takes a little less than an hour, he estimates. He automatically slows to just under the speed limit as they hit the last exit, rolling to an easy stop at the next red light. Despite having the right-of-way to turn, Vanitas hesitates, taking his time in looking both up and down the street. He hasn’t been this far uptown in months -- the first time he passed through it was the last.

Now he’s back, and somewhere in this flood of clean, new, expensive buildings is the last person he wants to see.

“What’s wrong?”

He glances sideways to see Kairi leaning over his shoulder. He looks ahead again just as quickly, not wanting to see any naive concern on her face. Rather than answering, he takes off again, but his driving is noticeably different: slower, more patient, not like the lazy and almost reckless movements of the last forty minutes.

The clock tower doesn’t take long to loom up above the rest of the buildings. Vanitas picks his way through the busy streets with ease, sticking to one lane this time, and finally stops outside an ice cream shop. The tower’s still about five blocks away.

“This’s your stop,” he announces as he kills the engine. He half-expects a retort or exclamation about not dropping her off at the front door, but he gets none of that. Instead, Kairi takes her arms back and dismounts to stand on the sidewalk -- where she turns and gives him a smile. It’s not one of Relena’s sarcastic sneers; it’s not a flirty, fake simper preceding a request; nor is it an uncomfortable, forced smile that says she’s eager to get away from him as fast as she can.

As far as Vanitas can tell, that warm smile on her mouth is genuine. There’s always the chance that she’s just a ridiculously good actress, but he doesn’t think that’s the case. Sucking up to him at this point would do her no favors.

And if it _is_ fake… he can’t remember the last time someone looked at him that way. He doesn’t enjoy it, necessarily, but he certainly doesn’t mind it, either. At the very least, it’s kind of nice to have someone be straight with him for once.

“Thanks for the lift,” she says brightly. “I’d actually never been on a motorcycle before. It was pretty fun.”

Vanitas grunts as he pulls off his helmet, shaking out his hair and running a hand through it. “Don’t get used to it. Parents always gave me hell about having one.” Still would, he’s sure, if he bothered keeping up with them. “Sora’s not about to take after me.”

Kairi sets her hands on her hips with a playful _hmph._ “Who said anything about Sora? Maybe I’ll get one.”

He meets her gaze with open amusement -- and while he still smirks more than he smiles, for once it lacks his usual skepticism. “Watch it. I might make an exception to my ‘no-redheads’ rule.”

Surprised, Kairi blinks, that too-honest smile wavering as her cheeks color slightly. Vanitas nearly rolls his eyes.

_A princess through and through._

She coughs lightly, ducking her head a bit as she tucks some hair behind her ear. “Well. I guess this is goodbye, then -- oh!” She quickly looks up again. “Right -- how much for the gas? I can mail you--”

“Forget it.” Vanitas waves a lazy hand. “It’s fine.”

“But--”

“I said it’s fine,” he snaps. “Pay me back by sticking to our deal and not saying anything.” He glances aside as he says it, missing whatever frown Kairi probably gives him over it. It’s not that big a deal, really, and he doesn’t want her knowing his address.

“...Okay.” She hesitates for a beat or two, but then that easygoing kindness in her voice returns. “But really, thanks for this. I owe you."

Well, Vanitas thinks, that’s no good. It simply won't do if she walks away with too good an impression of him -- she might assume he'll help her out the next time she lands in a rough spot, and he does have a reputation to keep.

No, he decides, it's much better to end this on a fun note and let her know just whom she's had the misfortune of meeting. As a bonus, maybe it will discourage her further from mentioning him.

He extends his hand, an offer of a goodwill gesture. Kairi's eyebrows rise in surprise -- smart girl, she already has that pegged as unusual behavior -- but after a moment she takes it. Her fingers are soft, smooth with some lotion or another.

"Yeah," he replies coolly, "you do."

He gives a sharp tug to make her stumble forward, and then with neither hesitation nor shame he leans and meets her midway by catching her mouth in a kiss. A shallow, simple kiss, the clumsiness of the collision stinging a bit, but a kiss all the same.

Her eyes widen. She reels backwards a second later as she regains her balance, but he lets her go, flashing the briefest of arrogant grins before pulling his helmet on with one hand and starting up his bike with the other. Without waiting for a response Vanitas glances to his left, and then pulls quickly out into the street to leave her stunned and staring after him.

She has a nice smile, yeah, but he’ll take that dumbfounded look as something to remember her by.

**Author's Note:**

> To give credit where it's due, the location and style of Vanitas' main tattoo was inspired by Palito-de-Pan on deviantArt, who has several lovely fanarts of that visual. c:


End file.
